‘Newsflash!’ I tell Perky, suddenly perky myself.
‘What is it?’
‘Actually… you might not have read this bit of the blog. Do you know who I mean by Nice Guy?’
‘I think so. I’ll have another read. Send me the link?’
In the three minutes or so that it takes for her to get up to date, I run the gamut of possible explanations. From the Occam’s razor, that Nice Guy sent a blanket invite to his London acquaintances of which I happen to be one; to my personal favourite, that after a summer of fun he is now ready for a serious relationship with yours truly, hence his inviting me to a house party.
‘Go, go, go,’ Perky sends back, when I tell her my reservations. ‘Stop being a silly pumpkin!’
That’s a thought, except orange really isn’t my colour.
I text Beatrice, entreating her to tell me it’s just a casual invite. Then I stalk Nice Guy to death, all the while hating myself for letting him get under my skin – again. An hour later I call it a night.
The event crops up from time to time on my home page. I put off making a decision. There’s no decision to be made of course. Curiosity will get the better of me, and I will cross London dressed as a bat/witch/cat in the vain hope that Perky is right; that my brother, mother, and flatmate are wrong; and that Occam doesn’t know shit.